


Sympathy for the Devil

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Between Heaven and Hell [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Lucifer (TV)
Genre: (and ramp it up about 10 levels), (take the usual Masque levels of UST), ARE YOU READY FOR A NEW ADVENTURE, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Bisexual Oliver Queen, F/M, Felicity Smoak is oblivious, HELLO FRIENDS IT HAS BEEN AGES, Oliver Queen Loves Felicity Smoak, One Shot, POV Felicity Smoak, Protective Oliver Queen, Sorry Not Sorry, Unresolved Sexual Tension, here's where the plot twist comes in, ngl had to get up and pace a few times, to shake off all this tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22492291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Felicity is supposed to be forgetting a hard week, not flirting with the club owner that she sometimes works for.  He has other ideas.Another Olicity AU, this time involving drinking, a couple of pianos, and a very flirty Oliver Queen.
Relationships: John Diggle & Felicity Smoak, Oliver Queen & Felicity Smoak, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, Sara Lance & Felicity Smoak
Series: Between Heaven and Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628074
Comments: 77
Kudos: 216





	Sympathy for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO FRIENDS HOW ARE YOU????
> 
> I AM SO GLAD TO BE POSTING AGAIN. It has been a nutty few months, filled with lots of work and vet med. I'm regularly working 45+ hours a week, so it slows my writing down quite a bit. And to be honest, I just haven't felt like it. But now I'm back with a new idea and ready to go again. :)
> 
> I don't know if y'all have ever watched Lucifer. If you haven't, you don't really need to know anything about it to read this fic. But if you haven't, you should also consider it for the main ship on the show. It might help fill an Olicity-shaped hole in your heart.
> 
> Because this is based on Lucifer, music plays a huge role in this fic. I have links in the fic to a few songs that might set the mood, if you're interested in having music in the background. There are also some lyrics dabbled into this, so it might be the closest thing to a songfic I've ever written.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

Tonight marks a lot of firsts for Felicity Smoak.

This is the first time she’s ever worn her gold heels that lace up to her knees. For the first time, she’s wearing this frivolous impulse buy of a dress, the black one with the open shoulders, short hem, and open sides. For the first time, she’s at a club for something other than business. For the first time, she has plans to order a drink more bold than her usual red wine.

For the first time, she’s at Verdant for pleasure.

Staring upward, Felicity’s breath catches at the building looming overhead. Verdant is built into the ground floor of one of the oldest towers in the city. Like all old buildings, it’s nestled in the Glades, where most historic architecture slowly crumbles away. The spire that houses Verdant has a fresh coat of paint and gleaming new windows. One of the perks of being owned by a millionaire, she supposes, as the music blares from inside.

All the other times she’s been here, the thumping bass makes her frown. She’s spent many nights complaining about the noise to most of the staff, about how it interferes with her concentration. Tonight, however, the heavy bass line is a drug—not the only one that will be on offer here, but the only one she will use.

A man jostles her when one of the bouncers steps toward the emerald, velvet ropes, the only obstacle between them and the doors. She steps back, feeling a woman’s hot breath on the back of her neck. The chatter of voices is even more deafening than the voice. She tries not to roll her eyes; just another crowd of people anxious to enter the hottest nightclub in Starling City.

Staring at the crowd, Felicity frowns. Maybe she should have let someone know; it would allowed her to avoid this sensation of feeling like a sardine in a tin can. Part of the fun of tonight, though, is supposed to be that no one will know who she is.

Her favorite bouncer makes eye contact, brows narrowing for a moment. “Felicity?”

Shit.

Though she smiles, Felicity runs a hand over her updo, tugging on one of the loose, blonde strands near her ear. She waves back with her other hand, and he beckons her forward with two fingers.

Sighing, she musters her way through the sea of people, ignoring any cries of protest. Maybe she should have picked somewhere else, where they _didn’t_ know her name. Then again, a place like that wouldn’t have bartenders she trusts—bartenders who will ensure that nothing… undesirable is slipped into her drink.

Finally she joins the man in the dark suit and white dress shirt, having to look up—_way up_—to meet his eyes. His sleeves are rolled up around his elbows, showing off toned, dark forearms and highlighting biceps the size of bowling balls. Someone protests her joining the front of the line, but he silences them with a single look. That military posture and build make John Diggle the kind of man that no one wants to argue with.

To her, he offers the barest hint of a smile. “Good to see you, Felicity.”

She smiles back in response, reaching up to adjust glasses that aren’t there. Her hand flounders in the air. “Hey, John,” she replies, her voice an octave higher than normal. Felicity adjusts the strap of her bag.

He arches an eyebrow in the way that only he is capable of, both gentle and judgmental at once. His eyes make a quick scan down her purple peacoat and gold heels. “I take it you’re not here to fix our computers again.” His tone is even, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

Even as she nods, Felicity can feel her face heat. “Good guess.”

One corner of John’s mouth pulls upward. “Not much of a guess,” he disagrees, eyes lighting up. “The last time you were here to fix our system, it was in Wonder Woman pajamas and bunny slippers.” He does a full glance of her again. “Not in heels and what I’m guessing is one hell of a dress.”

The warmth on Felicity’s face escalates to a burn that crawls all the way down her neck. “When your boss calls me in for a network emergency at two a.m., I ask only for two things.” She holds her hand up, ticking them off. “Coffee and no judgment.”

Normally stoic Diggle actually chuckles. “No judgment,” he assures her. “We thought it was very Felicity.” She blinks at the use of her name as an adjective; when they did that at MIT, it was to mock her. The way John says it, though, gives her a warm feeling in her chest.

He turns, motioning toward the black doors before her. “Have a good night, Felicity.”

She frowns. “Isn’t there an entrance fee?”

John gives her the sigh he usually reserves for when his boss acts like an idiot. “Not for you. You’re on the VIP list. The boss told us he’d fire every one of us if we ever tried to take money from you.” Felicity can only blink several times. Before she can protest, he smiles, patting her shoulder. “Have a nice night, Felicity.”

Shaking her head, she offers a smile back. “Yeah. You, too, John.”

Felicity enters on the upper level, checking her coat with the attendant. From there she moves to the wrought iron railing as always. The booths, dance floor, and bar are situated on the lower level, giving her an intimate view of the club before descending into the pit.

If she were to describe Verdant, it would be as indulgence and sin. The lighting is low enough that some couples in the corner booths are becoming uncomfortably familiar with one another. The walls are black satin with green lights. Women dance in carefully selected areas: one in a cage near the spiral staircase Felicity descends toward the bar, and at least six more on poles placed throughout the club.

Instead of being tacky, Verdant settles for opulent. All the railings are black, wrought iron, the floors black tile. The bar itself wouldn’t look out of place in a Prohibition speakeasy. Even the dancers are wearing bottoms that mostly cover their asses and leave just enough cleavage to entice.

After pushing through the crowd, Felicity takes a seat near the middle of the bar. She could have her choice; on a night like tonight, the crowd is more interested in the dance floor and the booths. Turning sideways on her stool, she notices for the sunken floor to one side, where a grand piano sits.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a smoky voice asks her. “Sometimes we have live performances. It depends on the owner’s whim.”

Felicity turns to meet the heart-shaped face of a woman more lovely than any piano. A wave of blonde hair falls over her shoulder as she leans across the bar, burgundy lips pulling up in a smirk. Her blue eyes seem brighter than usual with the new, black eyeshadow around them. Instead of wearing green silk shirts and black slacks, she wears a dress with a deep slit in the neckline.

“Oh, hey, Sara,” Felicity answers, turning around to face her. “How are you tonight?”

Sara blinks twice. “Felicity, I barely recognize you.” Her eyes take a long walk down Felicity’s figure that is nothing like John’s clinical once-over. “You look ravishing tonight.”

For the second time tonight, Felicity’s skin warms. “Thank you.” She sighs. “I needed a break from work.”

“Yes, you do,” Sara murmurs, making a move to brush the dark circles under Felicity’s eyes that her makeup won’t seem to cover. Felicity rolls her eyes; if she had a nickel for every time they played this game. “I could help you relax, if you wanted.”

Felicity pulls back. “Sara, I’m not interested in girls, remember?”

Her smirk belongs on a cat who has cornered a mouse. “I remember you saying you were flattered.”

Laughing, Felicity assures her, “I still am.” She pats Sara’s hand, reaching over long, black fingernails. “If I ever decide I want to spend the night with a woman, you’ll be my first choice.”

“That’s all I ask.” Sara pulls her elbows off the bar, pulling a glass from the counter with a twirl. “If I can’t give you the time of your life, what _can_ I do for you, sweetheart?”

“Twelve mile limit,” Felicity blurts. Sara quirks an eyebrow at her, highlighting the scar through it Felicity has never noticed before. “I mean, if you make those here.” She waves a hand. “If not, I’ll take—”

“Twelve mile limit it is,” Sara agrees with an easy nod. She reaches for the white rum without looking, turning at the same time for rye whiskey from the top shelf. With a few more flourishes, she passes back a cocktail that should be in a drink article.

Sara slides the drink toward Felicity. By the time she takes a sip, a green napkin is there, waiting for her. “On the house.” Sara winks.

Pushing it back, Felicity shakes her head. “I can’t take a drink this impressive for free.” She reaches into her purse. I know I owe you _at least_—”

Sliding the drink toward her, Sara gives her a sharp look. “Ollie would _impale_ me if I made you pay for this.” She tilts her head to the side. “If the boss says you drink for free, then you drink for free. No questions asked.”

Rolling her eyes, Felicity frowns. “I’m pretty sure you’d follow Oliver to the depths of Hell without asking any questions.”

“Gladly.” Her smile makes the hairs on the nape of Felicity’s neck stand up. “I always love to go home.” Felicity’s brow furrows, but Sara pats the black counter top of the bar and turns away. “When you’re ready for another, let me know. I mix all of your drinks tonight.”

“Oliver’s orders?” Felicity guesses, before taking a long sip through her straw.

A wink is the only answer to her question. “See you soon, beautiful.”

Turning away from the bar, Felicity toys with the straw in her drink, watching the movement in the club. [The heavy rhythms of a rock song begin and a sultry female singer’s voice breaking over the speakers, crying a single, sustained note.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kMXxDkqD6I) The dancers change their movements to keep in time with the new rhythms.

Taking a sip from her glass, she crosses her ankles, settling in against the bar, a pleasant buzz already starting in her head. There’s something about the low lighting and the music that are their own sort of high. Most of the crowd sways to the beat, while some choose to sit with friends. Others give tips to the dancers. The singer’s voice drowns out most of the din.

_I’ve been good for most of my life  
Never struggled with a halo, wrong or right  
Been around the world, crossed the stormy sea  
I’m under your spell and I can’t break free_

“Miss Smoak, what a pleasant surprise.”

Felicity whirls to her left, ready to meet those blue eyes again. No matter times she sees him, Oliver Queen always manages to be more attractive than she remembers. His short, brown hair is ruffled, the scruff on his jaw somewhere between a beard and a five o’clock shadow. One corner of his mouth pulls up, drawing her eyes to the mole there.

The black, three-piece suit hints at the muscle lurking beneath. The collar of his emerald dress shirt is open without a tie, but the rest of his attire is immaculate. A green square peeks out of his breast pocket, his cuff links sparkling with emeralds.

The warmest blue eyes Felicity has ever known drink her in, making a slow pass down her body. They make their way back to hers eventually. “You look even more delectable than usual,” he compliments her, in a voice dripping with sin. A blush burns across her cheeks, slipping down her neck. His smile widens, flashing perfect teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

As usual, it takes her a moment to find her tongue. “I just needed a night out.” She frowns; why does she always manage to sound dull around the hottest man she’s ever met? “How are you tonight, Oliver?”

He taps the bar twice, and Sara drops two fingers of a neat scotch in front of him. His eyes never leave Felicity as he reaches for it. “Better for being in your presence, love.” He lifts the glass of equally smooth scotch to his lips. “I trust Sara has been treating you well.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes, but she refuses to let me pay for anything.”

“Then she’s doing her job properly.” He waves his right hand, flashing the onyx ring on his middle finger. “No matter what time of the night I call, you always come to my aid.” His arm comes to rest behind her shoulder on the bar, leaning closer. Felicity is sure she’s going to burst into flames. “When you need a drink, allow me to come to yours.”

“You pay me for my work,” Felicity points out. She makes a face. “Too much sometimes.”

Instead of conceding, he grins. “Which should prove to you I have no desire for your money.” She frowns at him, which only makes his smile widen. “Consider it an added benefit of providing IT support to a nightclub.”

Sighing, Felicity brings the glass to her lips again. She tastes both the flavors of the drink and her defeat. Her eyes catch the glint of light from the black piano. “Sara says you have live performances here sometimes.”

Oliver nods. “We do, when the mood strikes me.” Leaning closer, his eyes lock onto hers. “I don’t usually take requests, but since it’s your first night here for pleasure, I’ll make an exception. Anything you’d like to hear, and I’ll play it for you.”

Felicity can feel her eyes widen. “You play?” He laughs, nodding. “_What_ do you play?”

“Tonight, anything you’d like.” She’s never heard anyone more serious.

Tilting her head to the side, she smiles. “Play something that _you_ want to hear. Just make sure you impress me.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Careful, Miss Smoak. That almost sounds like a challenge.” He turns his attentions on the piano, a wistful look on his face. “Fortunately, I have something in mind.”

“Like what?” Toying with her straw between her teeth, she waves her free hand. “You don’t strike me as a fan of classical, and I can’t exactly see you playing pop.”

Oliver waves a hand. “My preferences lean more toward blues and rock.” Grinning, he clarifies, “Devil’s music.”

Her skin starting to feel warm from the alcohol, Felicity teases, “Are you comparing yourself to the devil?”

“If the shoe fits, love.” Her lips press together. While she appreciates Oliver’s brutal honesty, sometimes the way he speaks of himself concerns her. She’s sure that somewhere between that smile and the devil-may-care attitude is someone who is no stranger to pain. His attention turns to her glass, studying it for a long moment. “What are you having tonight?”

“Twelve mile limit.” Only now does she notice most of it is already gone. That explains the buzz in her head, at least.

The smile returns to Oliver’s face, lighting his features once more. “An excellent choice. Arguably the greatest accomplishment of the Prohibition, which isn’t saying much. It was a terrible time in America.” Felicity laughs; only Oliver can talk about history as though he was there. “An excellent choice.”

“Not really,” she disagrees, making a face. “It’s stronger than I thought. Too many of these, and I won’t even be able to call a ride.”

Taking the glass from her hands, Oliver places it on the counter. A blur of blonde hair appears, and then he offers her another full one. “Sara can do that for you.” Though his eyes have never left her all night, they do to inspect the counter. He shrugs. “You are always welcome to spend the night in my penthouse, as well. I’m afraid the only bed is mine, but whatever you desire from me is yours, love.”

Felicity’s eyebrows fly up into her hairline before the corner of her mouth lifts up. “Trying to get me into bed, Mr. Queen?” Seconds later, it dawns on her what she’s said, and she barely suppresses a groan. Damn alcohol.

Oliver’s eyes snap to hers, his pupils wide. The smile slips from his face and the teasing lilt to his tone is gone as he replies, “_Always_, Miss Smoak.” Felicity’s breath stutters, and the fuzzy feeling in her head now has nothing to do with alcohol.

He leans back against the bar with a sigh. “Unfortunately, I can’t invite you into my bed in the way I’d like tonight,” he continues, opting to murder her with flirtation. He taps her glass before drinking from his own. “I’m not under the influence, but your question alone proves you are.” He isn’t wrong; future Felicity will never be able to look at him again.

A predatory smile overtakes his lips. “The next time you’re sober, however…” With a feather-light touch, he tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, leaning into it. “Well, you know where to find me, love.”

Felicity’s breath rushes out of her, heart pounding harder than the bass. She waits for some sign that he’s joking, but it never comes. She makes a note never to play poker with Oliver Queen; any man who can keep a straight face this long would be hard to beat.

There’s no way that he could be serious, as much as Felicity would love to tell herself otherwise. The man is nothing short of beautiful, in that raw, rugged way that screams sex, sin, and nothing but trouble. He regularly has his choice of both men and women. There’s no way he could be interested in her, freelance MIT grad who always has her foot in her mouth.

He’s seen her in her _Wonder Woman pajamas_, for God’s sake.

Still waiting for her answer, Oliver tilts his head to the side. After gaping, what comes out is, “Maybe you _are_ the devil.”

The laugh that leaves him would make angels weep. Felicity now has a new goal: make him laugh like that at least once every time they meet. “Retired, actually.” He takes a sip from his glass before rising from the stool. “I’ll leave you to your evening, but listen for me.”

“I will.” He’s already three steps away before she thinks to add, “And if you have any IT problems come up tonight, you have my number.”

He stops in his tracks, turning back to her with a gaze that goes straight through to her soul. The corner of his mouth with that mole lifts. “Indeed I do, Miss Smoak.” A shiver that has nothing to do with a chill works its way down her spine as he walks away.

God, she needs a cold shower.

Just like every time she’s ever talked to Oliver Queen, that silver tongue of his has worked wonders on—Nope, not finishing that thought. It seems too much like a fantasy she may or may not have had. Shaking her head, she takes a long draw from her drink. The buzz becomes stronger, allowing thoughts like that to fade away.

A hush falls over the club, and it takes Felicity several heartbeats to realize the music has stopped. A single light shines over the piano. Patrons are already starting to gather around it, whispering to one another. Felicity finds herself moving forward, moving toward where Oliver sits on the bench.

[It starts soft, with him playing solely with his left hand in a minor tone, and she recognizes that haunting melody instantly.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jMejs6Jswo0) His right hand joins a few bars later, in the same tones as the original lyrics. Her throat tightens, hearing every word in her head.

_There is a house in New Orleans  
They call the Rising Sun  
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy  
And God, I know I’m one_

The last time she heard this song, it was on a cassette tape. It had been a hot summer in Las Vegas that year, the windows of the ancient car rolled down to allow a breeze. Her father had been driving, the two of them on the way to an ice cream parlor.

It was the last summer they had before he took the car and the tape, never to come back.

There’s no way Oliver could know, could he? She glances his way just in case, but his attention is only on the keys, eyes closing as his fingers continue to dance across the keys. The effect this song has on her is lost to him, swept up only in the tune and his piano.

Her voice joins in with him, quietly. Her index finger circles the rim of her glass as his music draws her in, using an all new sort of seduction. Once, when they first met, he asked her what she truly desired, and she couldn’t think of an answer. If he asked her now, it would be to hear his version of this song over and over again.

Eventually the music fades into silence, which erupts into immediate applause. Felicity joins in, her eyes locking with his. As he steps away from the piano bench, he reaches into the pocket of his suit coat and pulls out his phone. A second later, she can feel hers vibrate in her purse. A smile already on her lips, she reaches for it, tapping the new text message.

_Well Miss Smoak… are you impressed?_ it reads.

Laughing, she types her response. _Very. I could listen to you play all night._

Turning away, she takes steps toward the bar. She stumbles over a step. Time to switch to water if she wants to go home tonight. Though the idea of staying in Oliver’s penthouse is a special kind of temptation, a niggling feeling in the back of her brain tells her to avoid the offer. If only for tonight.

Her phone dings again. Reaching into her purse, she pulls it out, nearly dropping it after reading the text: _A shame you’ve been drinking tonight then, or I’d offer you a private show._

The innuendo is unmistakable, even in print. Felicity can feel her face grow hot at the implications of that. Ever since the first time she’s met him, Oliver has oozed flirtation and charm, but it was always hollow. _Harmless_. For their last few encounters, there’s been a new edge to his tone, one that’s harder to dismiss.

She shakes her head, feeling cold all at once. The Oliver Queens of the world don’t look twice at the Felicity Smoaks of the world.

Still, a part of her can’t help but wonder. If he was looking for a one-night stand, he has a nightclub full of easier targets. There isn’t a man or woman in this club who wouldn’t say no to him. Yet his pursuit seems to be limited to her. Felicity can’t remember the last time she saw him share a drink with a statuesque woman or a handsome man. 

Frowning at the direction of her own thoughts, she taps out a message on the screen unnecessarily hard. _You don’t have to flatter me Oliver._

His reply is almost instant. _I’ve always thought of flattery as a type of lie._ Her eyebrows narrow, trying to make sense of his words. A second text follows. _I’m many things, love, but a liar is not one of them. Keep that in mind._

Just when she thinks he’s going to let her breathe again, another text comes through. Felicity holds her breath as she opens it, only for all the air to rush out of her lungs.

_If I could cook dinner for you just once, I’d happily spend the rest of eternity in hell._

Shaking her head, Felicity shoves her phone back into her purse. She is _way_ too drunk for this. That text seemed far too much like a confession, and she isn’t sure she can be the keeper of Oliver Queen’s sordid secrets. Their relationship is built on hollow flirting, and that’s the way she prefers it.

Determined to put as much distance between them as possible, she takes long strides toward the bar. The same step that caused her problems before catches her again. Felicity stumbles but rights herself, hands flailing in the process.

The remnants of her drink land on a heavyset man with a thick beard. His silk shirt drips with alcohol as he glares at her. “Oh, my God, I am _so sorry!_” Felicity blurts. “I didn’t see that step—”

“You stupid bitch!” The slap catches her off-guard, sending her into a nearby table. Liquor splashes against her dress and skin. Felicity sees stars for a moment, her cheek burning. She rubs at it, rising to her hands and knees. “Do you know how much this shirt cost me!?”

Groaning, she rolls into a sitting position, working her jaw. Cold settles against her wet skin and dress, a shiver going through her. Throbbing in her right ankle matches the throbbing in her left cheek. When she winces, one side of her vision blurs. She blinks several times to clear the tears, but her vision remains blurred in one eye. There won’t be any chance of finding her contact in this place.

A silk-lined suit jacket falls over her shoulders, and the scent of scotch and expensive cologne hits her senses. Warm hands wrap it around her, flashing the Prada label on the inside. She takes the offered hand without really looking at it, already expecting those brilliant blue eyes.

Concern etches itself into Oliver’s features as his hand moves to her elbow. “Are you all right?” His voice is barely above a whisper. Only now does she realize the music has gone silent.

Slowly, she nods. The pad of his thumb runs under her eyes in light brushes, as if to prevent smearing her mascara. Afterward, he pushes her hair from her face. “Come with me, love.”

Threading his fingers through hers, Oliver leads Felicity to a nearby booth. She sits on the edge of it, and his hand falls on her shoulder. Everything soft in his expression turns to hard lines, his eyes narrowing. “Excuse me for a moment. It appears I have some garbage to take out.”

Felicity reaches for him a moment too late. The asshole that slapped her might be shorter than Oliver by a few inches, but he has at least one hundred pounds to his advantage. “Excuse me, mister…” he calls.

“Shove off,” is the reply.

“Yes, Mr. Shove Off,” Oliver replies without missing a beat. Felicity would be laughing if she wasn’t so certain he’s about to get himself killed. “I’m afraid that you’re no longer welcome here.”

“Mind your own fucking business, suit.” Asshole crosses his arms, stretching the fabric of his wet shirt.

“My name is Oliver Queen, not ‘Suit.’ And as the owner of this establishment, I’m afraid that it _is_ my business.” Felicity flinches at the ice to his voice. “I don’t take well to men slapping women around. Especially not my friends.”

Asshole steps closer. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Ignoring him, Oliver motions to Felicity. “I believe you owe the lady an apology.”

“The dumb bitch spilled her drink on me!” Asshole screams, walking away. “Go to hell, both of you!”

“That doesn’t sound much like an apology, Mr. Shove Off.”

Whirling, Asshole flips open a switchblade. Felicity’s heart leaps into her throat as it plunges into Oliver’s side, but he doesn’t even flinch. Pulling it from his side, he sends it flying into the nearby wall.

Her assailant doesn’t even have time to blink before the tide turns for him. One moment, he has Oliver by the collar; the next, Oliver has him pinned against the wall by the throat. “You know _nothing_ about Hell,” he growls in reply, with all the fury of an avenging angel, “but you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

He says something so low Felicity can’t hear it. The mirror and the injuries must be playing with her head because she swears Oliver’s eyes glow red for a moment. Asshole screams.

Oliver’s voice rises above it. “Apologize. To. The. Lady.”

“I’m sorry,” her assailant blubbers. “Please don’t kill me! I’m sorry!”

With a casual flick of his hand, Oliver sends the man flying across the room. One of the tables crashes under him, but Oliver doesn’t bother to look, breath heaving. Felicity’s eyes go wide, frozen as she watches the events play out.

People scream and John comes running into the building. He examines the man on the floor for a moment before turning to Oliver. “What do you want me to do with him, boss?”

“Nothing.” His tone is final. “Sara will deal with this matter, thank you.” Oliver glances at Felicity, careful not to meet her eyes. “Your task for the night will be to see that Miss Smoak isn’t bothered again.”

“Of course.”

Sara is there a moment later. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she offers immediately. “I lost her in the crowd and—”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” His voice is ancient with old grief. “Get his driver’s license and then get him the fuck out of my club.” Felicity isn’t sure she’s ever heard him swear, but now she’s certain she never wants to again. “We’ll report him to the police soon enough. First, I need you to _punish_ him, Sara.”

A shiver crawls down Felicity’s spine, but Sara only narrows her eyes. “I thought it was _your_ job to punish people.”

Something dark—_dangerous_, even—crosses Oliver’s features. “If I go out there tonight, he won’t be punished. He’ll be dead.” Felicity feels her stomach drop at the confession. His earlier message comes back to her: _I’m many things, love, but a liar is not one of them._ “I want him to live knowing what torment awaits him, and in the afterlife, I want him to be tortured for all eternity.”

Heaving a sigh, he turns his attention upon Felicity, taking steps toward her until he’s by her side. “Mr. Diggle will ensure that nothing else happens to you. If you so wish, he can drive you home.” He reaches to touch her shoulder, but pulls his hand back at the last moment. 

“Oliver, wait.” She tries to rise to her feet, but pain shoots through her ankle. When she glances down, it’s to find it purple.

The smile that forms on Oliver’s lips doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “If it’s all the same, Miss Smoak, I’d prefer we avoid this conversation.” Her mouth falls open, but her protests won’t come out. “I’ll spare you the trouble of calling me a monster. Goodbye.”

He’s already walking away when she calls out for him. “Oliver!” He ignores her, heading for the elevator bank in the upper level.

Felicity immediately whirls on her favorite bouncer, gripping his arm for support. “John, I need you to help me get up there.”

His eyes widen at the panic in her tone, but his only move is to help her sit down. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Felicity.” She opens her mouth to argue, but he holds a hand up. “When Oliver gets like this, he can’t be reasoned with. Your best option is to come back tomorrow morning.”

Though she tries to protest again, John doesn’t let her. “Even if I _did_ think talking to him would make a difference, I can’t help you.” He motions to the chrome doors. “The elevator requires a code, and the only ones who have it are Oliver and Sara.”

Felicity settles into the booth, flagging down a waitress. “Can I get a water, please?” If she’s going to have this conversation with Oliver later, she at least needs to be sober. Digging into her clutch, she removes her glasses, switching out her one surviving contact for them.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John sighs. “Felicity, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for Sara,” she answers innocently. Frowning down at her heels, she pulls the bow at the top of her calves loose before sliding them off. Wincing, she rolls her bruised ankle.

“I don’t know when she’ll be back,” he tries, his tone almost pleading.

She shrugs. “I’ll wait.”

“It could be _hours_. Let me drive you home—or at least call a cab for you.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’ll _wait_, John.”

He sighs, joining her at the other end of the booth. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

* * *

“What the hell, Digg? You were supposed to take her home _hours_ ago!”

Felicity jerks upright, her glasses sliding down her nose. As she pushes them back into place, her elbow knocks against the two empty water glasses. She stretches, frowning at the silence that has fallen over the club. The patrons are gone, the music silent. A handful of bartenders and waitresses clean up quietly. A shiver crosses through her, and the fabric of Oliver’s jacket moves with her. The smell of scotch and cigarettes hit her once more.

Sara crosses her arms over her chest, now wearing black leather jacket and pants. She stomps forward on combat boots. Red stains decorate her knuckles. “Ollie _trusted_ you to make sure she gets home safely. You _know_ what she means to him.”

Felicity’s brow furrows. What she _means_ to him? Though she’s been providing him with IT work for the last two years, she wasn’t even sure they were friends until Oliver mentioned it just tonight. She thought he was protective of women—or just a decent human being. It can’t be because of her, despite Sara thinking otherwise.

John holds his hands up. “She wanted to stay, Sara. I tried to convince her to leave, but she wouldn’t.” He runs a hand down his face. “The only way I could have made her leave would have been to carry her out. Oliver would fire me for that.”

Snorting, Sara corrects, “He would _kill_ you for that.” She stops to pick what very much looks like blood from her hair. Placing her hands on her hips, she turns to Felicity. “What the hell are you still doing here at four a.m.?”

Suppressing a yawn, Felicity replies with rapid-fire words. “I need to see Oliver before I leave, and John says you’re the only one who has access to the penthouse.”

Making a noise in her throat, Sara frowns. “Felicity, sweetie, I thought you knew Ollie better than that. Talking to him now is a horrible idea.” Motioning upward, she shakes her head. “When he goes up there alone after a bad night like tonight? He’s different. That Ollie isn’t charming or funny. He’s moody and prone to lashing out.”

“Which is why I need to go up there. I can talk—”

A bitter laugh leaves Sara’s throat. “When he's in one of his moods, there is no _talking_, Felicity.” Her voice turns small. “When Ollie doesn’t want to talk, he’ll say things he doesn’t mean, just to push people away.” Felicity wonders how many times Sara had to learn that lesson the hard way before she decided it was safer just to let him hurt. “Whatever you’re looking for… you won’t find it up there tonight.”

Felicity’s ankle protests when she stands up, but she limps toward Sara anyway. “I’m not looking for anything, Sara. _Oliver_ is.” A furrow appears in Sara’s brow. “He seems to think that, somewhere in the process of protecting me, I decided he was a monster. I can’t leave here without correcting him.”

The sigh that leaves Sara belongs to someone twice her age. She snatches Felicity’s shoes from the floor. Taking Felicity’s arm, she escorts her to the elevator at a slow but steady pace.

The elevator panel’s keypad lights up as Sara presses _1411_, deliberately slow. “He told me earlier you could have the code. You want the _P_ button.” Her voice is quiet as she pushes the shoes back into Felicity’s arms. “I hope this goes the way you think it will.”

After pressing the button, Felicity waves as the doors close. An eternity passes as the floor indicator climbs higher and higher. It gives her time to think—_too much_ time to think. Her fingers toy with loose sprigs of hair, her toes tapping on the cold tile. What if Sara was right and Oliver lashes out at her?

Her reflection stares back at her in the gold paneling. Her hair is half out of its updo, her glasses at an awkward angle. Oliver’s suit jacket is too big on her, hanging past the hem of her dress. Her shoes dangle from her hand, and her mascara is smudged. One ankle is now purple, and a red, stinging mark is starting to form on her cheek.

Even an utter bastard would take pity on her in this condition, and Oliver Queen couldn’t be an utter bastard, even if he _was_ trying.

Could he?

Sara’s words from earlier hit her with full force: _I thought you knew Ollie better than that._ That's the problem, isn’t it? How many conversations has she had with Oliver where she learned anything about him? Two, maybe three.

Her eyebrows pull together as she tries to come up with them. He comes from somewhere else, but he doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t like to talk about his parents. Sara is the closest thing he has to a best friend, though he can be dismissive of her sometimes. Felicity is almost certain there’s a sister out there who he rarely sees.

…And she literally knows more about her neighbor than Oliver.

“This was stupid,” Felicity tells her reflection. “We’re not even really friends, and I just _had_ to set the record straight before leaving.” She leans against the back wall. “I could have called. Or texted. Message in a bottle. _Anything_ to keep from following Oliver up to his place. Instead, I’m—”

The doors open, and the breath rushes out of her.

She steps into a spacious apartment. A kitchen that would make chefs cry tears of joy sits to her right, a wall of bookshelves reaching to the ceiling on her left. Dark, modern furniture sits before her. Beyond that is the finest view of the city she’s ever seen. Stars glitter in the dark sky, the bright lights of the city below.

It all pales in comparison to the music being played on the baby grand before her.

His back is to her, but he wouldn’t notice her if she started dancing on top of his piano. His attention is only on the ivory keys, finishing a piece with a rolling arpeggio. Felicity’s breath catches, the shoes in her hands falling to the floor.

_Tortured_ is the word that his appearance brings to mind. His emerald shirt is rumpled, the sleeves rolled above his elbows. His fingers flutter in a trill before they run through his hair. That explains why it sticks up in all directions. A sigh deflates him.

[Oliver doesn’t even notice her arrival, launching into another piece.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=alaK5BvwiNc) This one is softer, more vulnerable than the last. By the time she recognizes the melancholic tune, he’s already in the first verse. Her chest tightens; that’s the sound of someone hurting.

Limping forward, she notices the space next to him on the piano bench. A lit cigarette smokes in an ashtray on top of it, a new glass of scotch nearby. The half-empty bottle next to it tells her it isn’t his first of the night.

As he builds into the chorus, Felicity sings the lyrics with him.

_But I’m a creep  
I’m a weirdo  
What the hell am I doing here?  
I don’t belong here_

As soon as her voice interrupts his artistry on the piano, he switches into an accompaniment. When she doesn’t continue into the second verse, he switches back. Sighing, Felicity leans her head against his shoulder. For the first time, his fingers stumble across the keys, but quickly continue.

Once he finishes the piece, his arm winds around her back, pulling her into him. Felicity nestles into his side as he reaches to the ashtray to smother out his cigarette. His eyes linger on her for what could be hours, but she doesn’t have it in her to speak.

His voice finally breaks the silence, raw and exhausted. “You never cease to amaze, Miss Smoak.”

She shrugs. “Everyone knows ‘Creep.’” When he doesn’t reply, she pulls away just enough to see his expression. Oliver’s eyes tighten at the corners, an invisible smile lurking there. His words dawn on her. “But that isn’t what you meant.”

“No, it isn’t,” he agrees. He ducks his head. “I thought I would never see you again.” An impossible sorrow enters Oliver’s voice.

“Because you defended me against some drunk jerk?” The corner of his mouth twitches, but his eyes stay on the ivories. “Oliver, you helped me up and then took a _knife_ to defend me.” Her eyes widen, reaching across his abdomen to the dark stain on his other side. “Please tell me you did something about that wound. Do you need first aid? Oh, God, why didn’t you go to the hospital? Oliver, this—”

Oliver’s hand stills her own, the corners of his mouth turning up. “I’m fine, Felicity.”

“How can you be okay? You were _stabbed!_ It’s not like you have a doctor up here—”

His smile becomes a smirk. “Not tonight, love. Unless you’re offering to role-play.”

Her face burns even as she frowns. “This isn’t funny, Oliver.”

“It is, actually,” he disagrees with a growing smirk. “It wouldn’t be if I was injured, but I’m _fine_, love.” Smile turning into a grimace, Oliver tilts her head to the side with his thumb and forefinger, examining the red mark on her cheek. “I’m more concerned about you.”

Waving him off, she answers, “Only a few bruises. I’m not the one who was stabbed tonight.”

Breathing a sigh in through his nose, he slides from the piano bench. Oliver pulls his shirt from his slacks before pulling the shirt over his head. Felicity’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him, unable to look away. He has to be the most beautiful example of the male physique she’s ever seen. Every muscle is clearly defined, from pectorals to abs.

He’s right, though: part from a bloody splotch across his abdomen, there’s no sign of a fresh injury.

That doesn’t mean his skin is unblemished. Thin, white scars dance between angry red blotches across his torso, speaking of old traumas she couldn’t even imagine. Suddenly she understands why he considered a knife wound trivial.

For effect, Oliver turns to show her his back. Deep lashes run across the top of his right shoulder, a patch of mottled skin on his lower back that can only be from a burn. The myriad of scars pale in comparison to the ones on his upper back. Deep, thick crescent moons follow the curves of his shoulder blades, pink and raw.

Felicity rises from the piano bench immediately, her heart dropping at the sight of them. Whatever Oliver is, whatever he might have been, he didn’t deserve this. _No one_ deserves this. “Oliver…” Her voice catches. “What happened to you?” She reaches out a hand without thinking.

Just before her fingers meet his skin, Oliver whirls at lightning speed. He catches her wrist, firm but gentle at the same time. Felicity jumps. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you didn’t touch them.” He places her hand just below the center of his collarbone, as if to say, _But that doesn’t mean you can’t touch me at all_.

“Sorry,” she whispers, eyes on the floor. As soon as he releases her hand, she jerks it back.

Oliver’s hand moves to her chin, tilting her head up so that her eyes meet his again. They’re gentle, filled with some emotion she can’t name. His hand moves to her face. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for, love.”

A heartbeat later, he steps around her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change.” He moves toward a doorway. Felicity takes two steps to follow him, but pauses when she sees the corner of the bed. Entering here would be a dangerous choice for both of them.

“I don’t understand,” Felicity calls to him. “Who… who did that to you, Oliver?”

It’s a long moment before he reappears in black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. His expression is at war with itself for several heartbeats before he finally answers, “My mother.” His voice breaks and Felicity’s heart follows. He gauges her expression carefully. “She had them cut off my wings.” He studies his feet. “I waged a war against her, and I lost. For that, I paid the price.”

Felicity can hardly believe the words. At first she thinks she’s misheard him, but then she sees his expression, serious and expectant. It makes no sense, but nothing about tonight has. He was stabbed, but does not have even a scar from it. He threw a man clear across a room tonight. And something about the way his eyes flashed red…

“Are you an angel?” she breathes out.

Oliver’s laughter breaks the tension. “Your last guess was closer to the truth, love.” The corners of his mouth are still upturned, but the humor fades from his eyes. “I might be a Celestial, but I haven’t been an angel in a very long time.”

“My last guess?”

“Earlier tonight, you accused me of being the devil,” Oliver clarifies. He rubs his thumb against the side of his index finger, the implications of his words starting to sink in. “I used to be.” He flashes teeth. “As I said, I’ve retired.”

“You’re telling me,” Felicity breathes after a lifetime of silence, “that you’re the _devil?_”

“Devil, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub… Old Scratch.” One corner of his mouth lifts up. “I’m rather partial to that one.” Oliver points to himself. “They’re all me.”

He holds his hands out when her eyes go wide. “The stories about me aren’t completely true. I’m well-acquainted with sin, but that hardly means I’m a murderer.” His eyes plead with Felicity, begging her to believe. “While my mother seems to disapprove of such things, I enjoy the pleasures of life. Good scotch. A fine cigar. Sex. But not the most deplorable crimes.

“I know that ‘the devil made me do it’ is a common phrase among you humans, but I’ve never made anyone do anything they didn’t want to.” One corner of his mouth comes up. “I may help them discover their desires, but that’s to help them find themselves. I can’t abide violent crimes against the innocent. As Lord of Hell, it’s my duty to punish those who deserve it.”

Felicity is almost positive her brain has short-circuited. “There’s an actual Hell?”

Nodding, Oliver replies, “It’s full of the worst of humanity. Murderers, rapists, pedophiles, genocidal maniacs. Exactly the people you’d expect.” He waves a hand. “Hitler, the Nazis, Mussolini, Stalin. Those sorts of people.” Another thought lights across his face. “And Trump, of course. I mean, he isn’t dead, but he’s _definitely_ going.”

After crossing to the sofa, Felicity sits down, pressing her fingers to her temples. Oliver follows, but he sits on the edge of a chair across the room. “It’s been too much, hasn’t it? You’ll have to forgive me; I’ve never tried to explain this to a human before. I sometimes forget I’ve had millennia to come to terms with this.”

Her eyes fly open. “You’re immortal.”

“Yes.” Oliver places his hands in his lap. “Only celestial weapons can harm me.”

Eyes narrowing, Felicity frowns. “The guy tonight stabbed you with a knife. You bled.”

Shaking his head, Oliver runs a hand through his hair. “Special circumstance.” His head tilts to the side, studying Felicity with new curiosity. “I cut my hand slicing limes at the bar a few months ago and bled then, too. I gave myself a paper cut the week before that.”

“I remember.” He nearly gave her a heart attack when he sliced through that lime and into his own finger. The counter ran red until he disappeared upstairs to stifle it.

“The only commonality is you.” Felicity’s eyes go wide at the implications, but Oliver’s words aren’t an accusation. His expression is soft. “It seems that you make me vulnerable, Miss Smoak. You make me human.” Oliver frowns then. “My ability doesn’t work on you, either.”

“What ability?”

Oliver lifts himself from the arm of the chair, moving to sit next to her. He leans close—_impossibly_ close—until she thinks he might kiss her. “Tell me, Miss Smoak,” he breathes out, his voice almost hypnotic, “what is it that you desire?” She’s never thought she could be high on someone’s presence, but Oliver Queen bends the rules of possibility.

_You_. The word reverberates through her mind, but no way in hell is she going to say that. “I don’t know,” she replies with a shrug. “Maybe a hot shower and pajamas?”

Dismissing the thought, Oliver waves a hand. “Anyone else would have told me their deepest desires—sometimes things they don’t like to admit to themselves. It’s my gift, to draw desire out of everyone. Humans _and_ Celestials.” His head tilts to the side. “But not you.”

Suddenly, Oliver clasps his hands together. “I think I could help you with the desires you _do_ care to admit, however.” He motions toward his bedroom, and Felicity tenses. “There’s a bathroom through there. Make a left on the other side of the bed. I have some clothes you can wear, if you would like to rest here tonight.” The smile doesn’t touch his eyes this time. “Provided I haven’t scared you off for good.”

Felicity rises from her seat, crossing to him. Oliver watches her with curiosity, but doesn’t move, having to look up to meet her eyes. “Your eyes,” she says, remembering the look on his face earlier, when he was standing over her attacker. She tilts his chin to better study them now. “How did you do that?”

“This face, this body, is just an illusion,” he tells her. Felicity feels herself frown. Why, then, would he match such a lovely face with so many scars? “It’s what I looked like before my Fall, but it’s difficult to hold onto it when I’m angry.” Oliver’s eyes focus downward, not meeting her gaze, even though he still lets her hand rest on his face. “Hell tears apart all sinners. Even me.”

Only now does he grasp her wrist, pulling her hand away. The illusion fades from his eyes first. Blue irises fade to red, the whites of his eyes darkening to midnight. The charming, handsome Oliver twists into something… not human. Red flesh marked with dark charring replaces it. He looks like a devil straight from the pages of a religious text, only without the horns.

And that devil had none of the sadness in his eyes.

Again Oliver seems to underestimate her, saying goodbye before she can make up her own mind. He wasn’t always like this, she reminds herself. He might have done horrible things, whoever did this to _him_ is the true monster. Not even the devil himself could have earned this cruelty.

Words failing her for a moment, Felicity leans in, pressing her lips to his cheek. It only lasts a second but when she pulls back, his eyes are wide. His fingers, red with pointed nails, move to touch the place. “I’m sorry for what they did to you,” she manages in a tight voice. “Whatever you did, no one deserves this.”

The illusion slams back into place, trading the true Oliver for the carefully constructed image of himself. “Sympathy for the devil?” he questions, one corner of his mouth lifting up. “I thought that was only a Rolling Stones song.” Felicity fixes him with a look. “Thank you.”

Sighing, Felicity feels the exhaustion of tonight catching up with her. She shrugs off Oliver’s jacket, passing the fine silk back to him. She can’t resist commenting, “I guess it’s true. The devil _does_ wear Prada.”

His eyes rove down her figure again, his lingering gaze just as heated as before, despite the fact that she looks like she just lost a barfight. “I have an appreciation for the finer things in life,” is Oliver’s reply, his eyes snapping to hers. Felicity’s entire body feels as though it’s on fire under his gaze.

Before she can let it get to her head, she rolls her eyes. Oliver would flirt with a wall if he thought it would react. “You don’t have to do that. I know what I look like right now.”

“Oh, but I do,” he disagrees. “I told you, love—I’m not a liar.” His eyes soften. “You might look tired tonight, but you’re as lovely as ever.” Oliver crosses his arms as Felicity’s face flames. “I meant what I said earlier, though. One dinner with you, and I’d happily spend the rest of eternity in Hell.”

Her sigh stutters out. “Could we…” Felicity waves a hand. “Could we not do this right now? It’s been a very long night, and I just discovered you used to be the devil. You saying and doing…” She breaks off, unsure of how to describe it.

“We can table this conversation for another night,” he compromises.

Rising to his feet, Oliver offers his arm to her. The gesture surprises her, but she places her hand in the crook of his arm, letting him help her into the bedroom. The sheets on the king-size bed are a deep, blood red, perfectly made. He pulls a black t-shirt from a nearby dresser, passing it to her.

“If you require anything else,” Oliver promises, “you have only to ask.” He points over his shoulder. “I’ll be out there.” After three steps away, he turns back to her with a smile that could only belong to the devil. “Unless, of course, you’d like some company.”

A groan leaves her. “_Oliver_.”

“Yes, Miss Smoak?” His tone has an innocence that doesn’t match his expression.

Sputtering for a moment, she finally manages, “I have no idea what to do with you when you say things like that.”

A smirk forms on Oliver’s lips. “I can offer a few suggestions.” Before she can do more than gape, his expression grows serious again, his hands sliding into his pockets. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Miss Smoak, but sometimes the truth can be discomforting. I try not to lie even to myself.” He lifts a shoulder. “Hiding my feelings for you would most certainly be a lie.”

Felicity can only gape at him. Feelings? Oliver has _feelings_ for her? That thought is even more dangerous than mere attraction. She’s sure she heard him wrong; this man has been walking among humanity since its existence began. He’s seen more beautiful, more intelligent, more kind, more fierce. A woman like her should be insignificant.

The way he’s looking at her is not insignificant.

Instead of dealing with this revelation, she blurts, “Where will you sleep?”

Though his eyebrows lift, he lets the possibility for innuendo drop. It almost feels like an olive branch. “The floor, the sofa in the foyer, the elevator, one of the renovated rooms on the floor below us. Wherever you’d prefer I be.”

A sudden surge of daring causes her to ask, “The bed?” She blushes as soon as the words leave her mouth.

Blue irises turn dark as his pupils dilate. “As much as I’d love to say yes, I’m not sure that would be the best idea.” Felicity looks away, but he’s before her a second later. “It’s been a very trying night for both of us, and you’ve been drinking.”

“So have you,” Felicity points out. It’s unfair how he doesn’t seem to be affected by it, when it loosens her tongue so well. A thought occurs to her, eyes widening with the realization. “Alcohol doesn’t affect you, does it?”

The corner of Oliver's mouth lifts as he nods. “It’s impossible for me to be intoxicated. On anything other than your presence, that is.” Their eyes meet, and Felicity feels her skin grow warm. “Resisting the temptation of being in my bed with you might be equally impossible.”

Nodding, Felicity bites her lip. He’s right; the idea of Oliver in the same bed as her is a thing she’s reserved for her fantasies for years. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like him to stay close. “Promise me you’ll at least stay in here, then?”

He takes her fingers in his, lifting their entwined hands to kiss her knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere, Felicity.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know some of you are going to be curious if I'll keep writing for this fandom now that the show has ended. The answer is a resounding yes. There's so much more I want to explore, and, if I'm being honest, I haven't watched the show regularly since the Season 6 crossovers. It's been a while since I was satisfied with the writing on Arrow, even though the acting was phenomenal. The Olicity wedding gave me the closure I needed.
> 
> So as you move on to new fandoms and new things, if you like my AUs, please subscribe and come back for a nostalgia trip. ;) This isn't the end of my journey in this fandom. New fics are on the horizon.


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